Imagine a young fervent swarthy portrayal, caramel strong un-clad lady, yet at touch so “douce” and glued whilst leaning out from a window slender rainy on a balcony too urban pane And eyes at digital art Spin a confession Of how the watered petals of flowers there do not explain The origin or calling of the rain And that its every end or beginning In her unbetrayal made swayed Has actually since always there been taking its rightful place.
The world in that fact does not have, find nor make relay, sense.
Someone right on the other side’s staircase stroll Would extract their own core by extending through their ribs own
her beloving so longing and old that one at last will find it possessing a too hurtful call.
Head lolled. Dew owned.
Hereby a painting The Rain gave me As my new rightful face. They will hold it forevermore As their subject yet bearer. The chosen laid and left there